


Renewal

by TemariDesertStorm



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-10 22:52:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12309540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TemariDesertStorm/pseuds/TemariDesertStorm
Summary: He lost her more times than he can count, more times than he can bear. He will not lose her again, even if he has to tear the world apart in the process.





	1. The Beginning of His End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I MUST SCREECH LOUDLY ABOUT THIS BECAUSE MY MUSE HAS RETURNED WITH A REVENGENCE AND WILL NOT SHUT UP ABOUT THESE TWO DORKS. I HAVE LITERALLY BEEN WRITING FOR HOURS.

He watches her, at first for signs of weakness, signs of her falling as he has seen other mages fall. He watches her after, as her strength of will has assured him, because he has found he likes looking at her, wondering exactly what it is about her that pulls the band of misfits towards her, if not magic. He watches her again, enticed by the soft sway of her hips, the gentle slopes and curves of her that he longs to hold, imagining the contrast in his olive-skinned hands on her ivory waist, imagining her gasping his name as he takes her, over and over, until he starts back to reality, hand wrapped tightly around him as he ruts and spills himself all over his bedsheets. He wonders if she'll feel as good as he imagines.

He gets angry, frustrated, fears pushing her away. He finds out she's better than he imagines, better than he could have dreamed. He leaves her, unable to quench the guilt tugging at his heart when he catches her stifled sobs. He cries, too, clutching the little piece of her that he took - more symbolic than the pieces of their hearts that were exchanged, melted and torn apart - wrapping it around his wrist, clinging to it like a lifeline.

He stops looking at her. He doesn't see the ache in her eyes as she looks at him, the gloom behind her smiles. He doesn't hear her voice as she mutters to the Arishok, see the fight leave her as she drops to her knees, clinging to her mother's corpse.

He does not know that he was her lifeline, and now she is truly lost, adrift in a tide beyond her control.

He does not see her again until it is far too late.

When he finally sees again, it is a river of blood that greets him, thick crimson life lapping and pooling at his toes. He sees her, battleaxe shoved almost clean through her abdomen, her armor stained red with blood - both her own and the blood of the Arishok, his decapitated corpse in a heap behind her - the Knight-Commander proclaiming Lady Hawke the Champion of Kirkwall. He almost misses the way she holds herself, almost misses the way she sways as the Knight-Commander releases her hand.

But he does see. He sees, and it is too late.

He manages to catch her as she falters to one side, carefully lowers her to the ground as Anders, Merril, and every other mage present is screaming and bickering with every Templar to get to her and heal her. Fenris hears none of it, too focused on how pale her skin has become, how light she feels in his arms, how she trembles as she looks up at him and manages to smile, a true smile that had vanished from her lips since the night he left her side. He hears someone begging, pleading with her to hold on, to survive, to not leave him alone, and he realizes that it is his as the light in her eyes starts to fade, as she parts her bloodstained lips to whisper his name, piercing through him like a blade, ripping his heart out as easily as he did, taking it with her as her head drops against his arm, her breath ghosting out across his bare skin, her forehead cool and clammy.

People around him are shouting. Anders is glowing bright blue, fighting a battle he knows he has already lost. Merril is on her knees, crying into her hands. Aveline turns away, gathering what little remains of her pride to hide the tears she sheds for her dear friend. Isabella is leaned up against a pillar, face buried in her arm, her other hand tracing along a slash in the marble as tears drop to the floor. Sebastian is praying softly, lost in his grief at losing more of his 'family'. Out of all of them, Varric is the one who reaches down and closes her eyes, laying his hand on her forehead in a silent goodbye, too stricken and pained to even cry for his best friend.

Fenris hears nothing. He hears nothing but the offending beating of his own heart, a lonely sound that he curses for existing without her. Hawke. Lovely, kind, Marian Hawke, who had opened her arms to them all, welcomed them into her heart, accepted him into her very being... _His_ Hawke. His Marian... Gone. He should have told her, that night, when he thought it better to leave, just how much she meant to him. He would rather be with her, even chained at her side, than be alone. He would wear the chain proudly, grateful to be a tamed wolf, so long as he was hers. He would have told her that he would rather die without her. Instead, he screams: a broken, rasping scream that has everyone silenced in an instant, a scream filled with agony immeasurable - haunting all who heard it that day amidst the burning ruins of the city - screaming and screaming until his voice breaks, clutching the still form of his love to his chest, soundless tears dripping into hair he had spent years wondering at the softness of.

He stays there, holding her, rocking back and forth with his endless tears and silent screams, until they come to take her away. They find her in his arms, cradled against his chest, his eyes nearly as hollow and sunken as the corpse he clutches. He protests when they try to take her from him, swatting at hands with tired swings of his fist, the other clinging to her shoulders. It takes both Sebastian and Donnic to pull him away, the body finally relinquished to Aveline, and they see he is little more than a ghost himself; barely able to stand on his own, pale and wraith-like with her blood matting his hair to his face, reaching out for her with weak arms and platitudes that come out as strained gasps of air. The moment the Guard Captain is out of sight, he collapses in on himself, the two men startled by the shift in his weight, letting him drop to the floor in a shuddering heap that seems to grow smaller every time he wriggles from their grasp.

He spends two weeks unconscious in Anders' clinic, lying in a hastily-constructed cot in the healer's personal living space, the little left of his mind drugged into a stupor of waking sleep, his body resting while his mind remains aware. Varric asks the mage if it is okay for him to be like that, on one of the visits the dwarf makes, a promise to Hawke to keep the elf safe.

"Better he's awake like this," Anders replies sadly, unable to hide the pity in his eyes as he glances at the remains of the man he can no longer hate, "than asleep and dreaming. I'd rather deal with him staring like that than hear him screaming again." Varric does not argue that, seeming glad for once that dwarves never dream.

After two weeks, Fenris finally stands up, his mind no longer addled or breaking. He quietly thanks Anders for putting up with his presence, shaking off lingering words of concern for his health, and heads home. He takes the long way home, snaking through side alleys and back streets to avoid passing by Hawke's estate. He, too, fears what his reaction will be, in that tiny part of his heart that he can never silence, the part of him that belongs to her. He cares little what happens to him anymore, does not fight when the hired men in Tevinter armor come for him and find him seated on the floor in his ruined hovel of a home. He does not protest as they chain him, knowing how dangerous he can be, does not bother correcting their leader when he explains how dangerous this particular slave is. The thick metal collar slides home around his neck, a familiar weight that sings of inevitability, and he does nothing. He only fights, only once, when their leader pulls the red off his wrist, tosses it to the dusty floor as a message, yanking against his chains as they drag him out into the night, leaving his last piece of Hawke behind.

The trip back to Tevinter is slow, filled with beatings he is told is for killing his master's apprentice. He no longer knows how to feel satisfaction in Hadriana's death, no longer feels shame or anguish at being lashed, whipped and laughed at by the men around him. They can have this shell of him: he is as much a corpse as Hawke, his life ending with hers.

Surely, he muses in the emptiness of his mind, dragged along through the mud and across the scorching earth, he has nothing left to lose.


	2. Upon Waking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris wakes to something - and someone - familiar, not sure if he's awake or asleep.

When Fenris wakes, he knows he can not be in Tevinter. No slave would be allowed such comfort: not even once during his nights of pleasing Danarius had he ever been permitted to sleep on his back in comfort, instead curled at his master's feet, sleeping on top of the coverlet in his thin clothes and metal collar, chained leash snaking up the bed. Here, there was no chain, no collar, no _clothes_ ; only a warmth at his side, snuggled up under the sheets next to him, the only sounds being the crackling of the hearth as it burned low and the even breathing of the bed's other occupant. He knew that breathing, knew the heartbeat beating softly against his arm, knew it better than the beat of his own heart. But, it couldn't be...

Slowly, Fenris turned his head and his heart clenched tightly in his chest. He could scarcely believe his eyes, but there she was. _Hawke_. His Hawke, powerful and delicate, curled up against his bare arm, her nose leaning softly against his shoulder. She was sleeping soundly, light brown freckles dotting her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, dancing like constellations across her shoulders and down her chest, each shallow breath lifting the swells of her breaths in and out of view under the velvety sheets. He could feel her, the length of her body against him, skin against skin unhindered: from the soft dip of her stomach, bringing out the pronounced curve of her hips against his; to the light brush of her toes against the arches of his feet, unconsciously seeking out the warmth of him in the night. Her short hair, black as midnight and silky smooth, clung to her forehead, loose strands of it having ridden up in her sleep so that the turn of his head to look at her caused them to tickle at his jaw.

He knew this scene before him, knew what had come before it and what would come after. Hadriana was dead, and he had come to Hawke to apologize for his outburst. Truthfully, he had come to her to see if she hated him for what he had said, knowing that he had hurt her with his harsh words, praying silently to the Maker or any gods who would listen that she forgive him. She had done more than forgive him: she had listened to his reasons, tried to understand why he had fled, why he had said such hurtful things. She had tried to comfort him, stepping off the eggshells she had been walking on around him to try to comfort him, and he had snapped. He had felt her touch and - for one tiny second - he had seen red, pinning her to the wall. When he came back to himself, staring into the crystal blue of her eyes, he saw no fear, and that scared him more than anything Hadriana had inflicted on him, more than Danarius could ever inflict. She wasn't afraid of him, of the wolf he had been conditioned to be. Instead, she had granted him his every desire, meeting him with gentle lips and gentler hands, opening herself to him, moaning and pleading his name as he pounded himself inside her wet folds. He had tasted every inch of her body, sucking on her nipples, nipping at her stuttering pulse, squeezing his fingers into the inviting plumpness of her ass. He had spilled himself inside her again and again, emboldened by her pleas for more as he brought her mewling over the edge each time. He had nearly collapsed on top of her at the end, spent and utterly satisfied, listening to the hammering of her heart in her chest as she ran careful fingers through his hair, placing soft kisses on his skin.

He had woken to her like this, that night, when his memories had fled him, leaving only the gaping hole in his mind to signify their presence. He had run from her, from himself, from the weakness that threatened him. She deserved better than this broken, unworthy thing that had crawled to her in shame and been given more than he could ever repay. He had left her, citing his memories as the cause, biting out that half-truth. He had left her, cursing his weakness as he stumbled down the stairs in the dark, trying to pretend he could not hear the little anguished sobs that followed his every step even after he had returned to his crumbling mansion, only then realizing that Hawke's cries had been replaced by his own, the red ribbon clutched in his trembling grip.

Somehow, he was here, with Hawke sleeping soundly at his side, whole and alive and _his_ \- here, before he had left her, breaking them both in the process. She was here, sighing contentedly as he ran his knuckles across her cheek, a smile tugging at her lips before she shifted and her eyes slowly fluttered open. Their eyes met, green and blue, and Hawke smiled softly at him, so full of love that he ached under her gaze. "Morning," she mumbled, craning her neck slightly to follow his touch, brushing her lips across the back of his fingers, uncaring in her jovial way that it was still dark out.

He did not realize he was crying until Hawke made a confused face and brought one of her hands to his cheek, swiping away the wetness as it trailed along his skin. She looked at it, glistening on her thumb in the faint firelight, before looking back at him, her confusion twisting with something pained. "I wasn't that bad, was I?"

Fenris bit back a laugh, knowing that she had asked that of him before, concerned that she had driven him from her side with her poor performance. He had answered her then, his limited vocabulary dampening his reassurance, but he did not answer her now. He let his actions speak for him, propping himself over her to tangle her into an embrace, slanting his mouth over hers that he desperately needed, winding his fingers into her hair as though she would crumble if he let go. She relaxed in his arms, opening herself once more to him, letting him kiss her deeply and without question. Her taste was as he remembered it: moist and inviting, of apples and sunshine, a taste that made him think of a cool breeze through a field of flowers on a hot day, of soft sprinklings of water on heated skin. She tasted of everything he had expected and more. She tasted like home.

When he finally pulled back, her cheeks were pink, her breathing heavy. "Question retracted," she managed breathlessly, a smile on her lips, now red from his attentions. He returned her smile with a warm chuckle, feeling the skin of her face with his nose, pressing feathery kisses along her jaw. He had missed this, the easy closeness that Hawke brought him, with her gentle touches, her kind permissions, the effortless way she made him smile. He was in love with her, a tugging sensation in his chest that always seemed to pull him in her direction, now resting comfortably in his sternum as he leaned over her. When his lips began trailing their way down her neck, she moaned, a half-pleased half-disappointed sound that made him stop, arching an eyebrow as he met her gaze. "Not that I wouldn't mind going another round, but I'm so sore that I think I'll have to relearn how to walk," she quirked a teasing smile at him, placing a kiss on his cheek that made his heart skip a beat.

Understanding, Fenris dropped himself down beside her, propping himself on one elbow to gaze at her as she lay on her back beside him. She watched him watching her, unable to keep the smile from her face or the affection from her eyes. He let himself love her as he had never that night, light touches on her skin, tracing out shapes in her freckles, delicately thumbing over pink nipples and unblemished breasts, worshiping her as he had never thought to that night, unhurried now by frantic desire. She accepted his touch gracefully, letting out soft hums of approval as his calloused hands danced over her, this beautiful fragile thing that had been granted to him purely for being himself, this woman who was equal parts extravagant lady and vicious whirlwind of magic.

He stops suddenly, thumb brushing across her navel, abruptly remembering the Arishok's battleaxe nearly cleaving her in half, blood running through his fingers. He remembers the lifelessness of her eyes, the light weight of her in his arms, whispering his name with the last of her breath. He remembers it all, remembers that this must be a dream, because he is bound and whipped and being dragged back to Danarius, because this woman who he loves so dearly is dead and buried and gone, because he never told her how much he loved her until she ripped out what remained of his heart and took it with her to the grave. He is sure this is a dream, so sure that this is a demon in Hawke's guise, but he cannot bring himself to care. So what if he becomes an abomination? What is there left for him outside this dream, now that Hawke is gone? Hawke is _here_ , in this dream, whole and perfect and alive and more than he is willing to let go of.

He will never let go of her again, he promises himself, ignoring the confusion of the Hawke beside him as he sweeps her into his embrace, tucking her head under his chin, holding her to his chest as he did the corpse, whispering his love to her in Tevene as she accepted his embrace, snuggling and fitting to him as though she had been made for him, a perfect match. He drifted back to sleep like that, with her warm breath ghosting down his chest, his entire world cradled safely in his arms.

He was woken by a loud knocking sound, grumbling under his breath. The sun had risen, beams of light splaying in the windows to light up the room. The fire in the hearth had died, letting in a chill, but the woman stirring in his arms was all the warmth he needed to fight back against it. Hawke sat up slowly as the knocking continued, letting out a light giggle as Fenris pulled the pillow over his head, muffling the sounds and blocking out the light. Peeking out, he saw her smiling and slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her back down to him with a yelp. The knocking stopped and the door opened, leaving a very startled Leandra Hawke in the doorway, gaping at the sight of her daughter lying naked next to the striking elf. Hawke gaped back at her mother, fumbling with the sheets to hide her chest, leaving Fenris to scowl mutely from under the pillow.

It took about an hour for the general panic and heated arguments to die down, during which Fenris discreetly dressed and tried to sneak out of the room, only for Hawke to give him a reassuring smile and insist he stay for breakfast, Leandra politely agreeing before their argument resumed. A light eater on the best days, Fenris nibbled a bit of toast as he waited, talking to Bodhan about the general affairs of the household after Orana had squeaked at the sight of him and bowed so quickly that she nearly dropped a tray of tea. The conversation was interrupted by occasional peaks in volume from the two Hawke women arguing, but by the time both entered the kitchen, Hawke tromping around in her household boots with a frown, Fenris had occupied himself watching Sandal attempting conversation with Hawke's mabari.

Leandra cleared her throat as she sat down, nodding her thanks as Orana brought her in a fresh cup of tea, letting the young elf tend to her grumpy mistress. Ever the lady, Leandra held herself with poise as she took a dainty sip from her cup, clasping her hands on the table in front of her as she looked across the table at Fenris. He had never denied that the elder Lady Hawke was a beautiful woman: a lot of her delicate features and natural grace had been passed on to her daughter, even if (as she put it) Hawke was 'content to traipse through the mud, threatening life and limb, when she could do so much more winning over high society'. For his part, Fenris could imagine what Leandra had looked like years ago by looking to her daughter, and he understood why Malcolm Hawke had risked the wrath of the Circle for her. Now, her mouth was set in a thin line, speaking more as a concerned mother than a lady of society. "I have spoken with my daughter at length about this... situation."

"As you probably heard," Hawke grumbled under her breath, earning her a scowl from Leandra.

"As a mother, I am concerned for my daughter's future, and her behaviour reflects upon both her status and her upbringing. You must understand my position," she paused, taking a short breath and another sip of tea.

Fenris returned her stare evenly. "You fear I have ill intentions towards her."

"I have concerns-"

"That are legitimate and yet entirely misplaced." Both women stare at him as if he has just declared he will sprout wings and fly. He continues. "Hawke is a beautiful woman, assuredly, but she is strong and kind, willing to help others but never to be taken advantage of. I would be a fool to think myself equal to the task of shaming her. My feelings for her are sincere. I admire her resolve, her loyalty, her generosity; more than I had expected of her when we first met. For all the irritation I have caused her with my attitude, she has never once lost her patience with me, giving me confidence in myself and my actions. I have been made better for her care, and I would have your approval to remain at her side, to support her into the future, whatever it may bring."

The silence when he finishes is deafening, and each second of it brings an embarrassed heat to his face that spreads to his ears, his nervous heartbeat thundering all the way to the tips. Hawke is blushing too, when he looks up at her through his fringe of hair, cheeks red enough to drown out her freckles, tears of joy threatening at her eyes. Leandra is in shock, something wistful in her expression that makes Fenris think that not all of her is still there, half of her mind thinking back on happier times. The silence is broken with a loud bark before Hawke's mabari barrels into Fenris, knocking him to the floor with a thud to lick his face with its big, slobbering tongue. Hawke and Leandra both break into wild laughter, even as Hawke rises from the table to wrestle the slobbering hound off him. Leandra gracefully hands him her handkerchief to wipe his face, and the smile she gives him tells him all he needs to know. He has been officially welcomed among them.

He spends the day at Hawke's side, no work having come in for her and no urgent messages from Varric or Aveline. At his question as to her errands, she merely smiles and places a kiss to his temple, telling him quietly, "today, I'm too happy to do anything but spend the day with you". She spends the day continuing his reading lessons, amazed at how much he has improved. He avoids her question at how much he has been practicing, not sure if he should breech the topic of the months after his parting, of the hesitant meetings when he could work up the nerve to see her and the small pieces of parchment lined with letters she left on the landing outside his room when he could not. Instead, they work where he needs improvement, celebrating his achievements with affectionate kisses, encouraging smiles when he struggles. They break for meals, curling up together in the library with a bottle of wine from her cellar, a warm blanket and a book when the evening rolls around, taking turns reading passages until Hawke discovers they've been reading one of Isabella's friend fiction pieces when the descriptions of the characters get strangely familiar, leaving Fenris laughing as she scrambles to hide the offending literature while muttering obscenities under her breath. Secretly, he wonders what other things Isabella had in mind for their imaginary counterparts and if Hawke would be willing to reenact any of them. The thought of seeing Hawke like that makes his ears heat up and he decides then that he has had enough wine for one day, holding close to him the woman that completes him.

She invites him to bed with her that night, 'just to sleep' as she promised Leandra, and he watches as she carries her nightclothes with her behind the screen in the corner of her room, the silhouette of her body dancing across it in the firelight. She comes out wearing a threadbare shirt far too large for her, one that hangs from the edges of her shoulders for dear life, cut short enough to give him a tantalizing peek at where her rounded thighs met, soft skin nearly begging for his touch. She climbs under the coverlet and smiles at him, patting the empty side of the bed she has reserved for him, and the sudden wave of guilt that washes over him is enough to make him cower, his ears drooping as he drops to the floor, resting his face in his palms as he leans against the side of the bed, unable to look at her. It only takes a moment for her to join him, draping the blanket across both their shoulders, not asking for anything of him. This is Hawke, he knows, this silent reassurance that her presence brings, not demanding answers but offering an outlet for when he finds the words. They sit side by side, the fire crackling around the other side of the bed, the only sound above the beating of his heart and her soft breathing.

"Hawke?"

"Hmm?"

The words catch in his throat, scared that she will laugh at him for the absurdity of it. He coughs, deciding to try a different approach. "I... You trust me, yes?"

"With my life." The response is filled to the brim with conviction and the gaze he meets is as well, level blue regarding him with the utmost seriousness.

He feels the blush creeping up his neck. "And... you would believe me, no matter how crazy it might sound?"

"You've never given me a reason not to believe you. You've never lied to me before."

"Hawke..."

She smiles at his soft reprimand, answering his question with a nod. "I would believe anything you have to tell me, without question."

He takes a deep breath and he tells her. He tells her of his parting from her side, of the pain that replaced the love they felt. He tells her of Isabella's betrayal and of her loyalty, of her own breathtaking fight with the Arishok. He tells her of her passing, the agony of it, breaking himself into a million pieces as he recalls all of it, these things that have not happened and may never come to pass. He tells her everything, even the words he had not found the will to speak that night, the words he had waited until too late to offer her. He finishes exhausted, shaking with remembrance, unable to look at Hawke's face as she contemplates what he has just said.

After a long time, merely sitting together, she reaches out and brushes the hair from his face, carefully tucking the strands behind his tapered ear. "I see."

The response is so quiet, so flat, that he starts, ready to confront her disbelief with his sorrow that he is taken aback by how resigned she looks, staring at the floor as she clasps her hands in her lap. He is not sure what to say to her, feeling words of comfort inadequate in light of his tale. "You believe me?"

"Of course I do," she replies, smiling like the idea of her disbelieving him is more absurd than the story itself. There is pain in her eyes, brimming with unshed tears that he has to fight against reaching out to brush away. "Because this is a dream."

Those few words make the world seem to stop around him, his heart filling with a cold dread that chokes him like a noose. His worst fear since waking is reality, and it bites down on him as he fights to contain his emotions before realizing that there is nothing stopping him, no one to judge him here. He gasps and chokes on sobs that spill violently from his throat, crushing this Hawke in his embrace. She returns his embrace with gentle touches, running her fingers through his hair and down his back, caressing his cheeks, placing affectionate kisses along his jaw and up his ear, murmuring loving words to him as he shook in her arms. "Don't," he sobbed, clinging tighter to her, "don't do this. Don't let this be a dream. I don't want it to end."

"All dreams have to end, Fenris. This one is no different."

He pulled back enough to see the agony mirrored on her face, his hands trembling on her shoulders. "I can't lose you again! Not again..." He kissed her, starving, devouring, more akin to their first kiss than anything they had shared throughout that day, swallowing down all breaths and sounds she made, teeth scraping together as he traced along her tongue with his own. He pressed against her in his fierce desire, pinning her awkwardly to the floor with his body, scraping his blunt fingernails along the inside of her thighs, roughly squeezing her breasts under his palms, sinking his teeth into the pulse at her collarbone just to hear the sound she made, taking and taking and taking of her everything he could for fear of waking without memorizing her. She lets him, giving him everything she is, letting him drown in her taste until he is shaking too hard to do anything but lie on top of her, his face buried against her shoulder, gasping for air around his pain. There are so many things he wants to tell her, wants her to know, so much he wants to share with her, but the agony in his chest is crushing him, his heart tearing itself apart again at the loss of her, and he can only surrender to her embrace and cry. There is no conditioned training here, no slave molded to be a living weapon: he is a man, free to fall to the emotions that he has pushed into the back of his heart and ignored. He cries for her, his Hawke, for himself, for the Fog Warriors he killed, for the family he may never recall, and for every mistake he has ever made.

He cries until his body can no longer endure, until his tears dry and he starts to fall asleep. It hurts, and he hurts himself more to stay awake: if he falls asleep here, in this dream, he knows Hawke will vanish, knows he will be alone again, knows now that a broken thing repaired can only stand to be broken so many times before it shatters. He knows he will shatter if he loses her again. Traitorously, his eyes continue to close on their own, Hawke's voice vibrating through her chest as she hums a lullaby that he should remember but does not, letting him drift off to sleep in her arms, a last comfort.

"I love you, Fenris. I'm with you, always... Always..."


	3. Upon Waking to Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris wakes up in a familiar hell, where his old life resumes.

Fenris woke with a start, feeling the cold floor beneath him leeching the last of the warmth from his skin, the awkward angle he had been tossed into the room in making it hard for him to breathe, arms twisted roughly and chained behind his back, metal collar digging into his throat. He could feel that he was back in Tevinter, the hum of blood magic scraping silently against his markings, the smell of arid heat and heavily-perfumed sweat so familiar that he did not need to be above ground to know. As it was, he was underground, in one of the damp rooms that he recalled Danarius having retrofitted from a storage room into a cell for his disobedient slaves.

Though still groggy, the rest of the trip from Kirkwall to Minrathous came flooding back into his mind as he tried to shift and felt the raw skin of his back protest. The hired mercenaries had whipped him under orders for the death of Hadriana, taking turns kicking him and laughing until his lack of reaction had dulled their fun. A few had used him for more personal purposes, Fenris obediently sucking their cocks on command, which provided them with more entertainment than beating the escaped slave. For his part, Fenris did as he was told, having no pride to injure and no shame at resuming some of the duties he had been taught to perform. When they had finally dragged him back into Minrathous, it had been late at night and Danarius was away at a party, instructions having been left that they should throw him down in the cellar.

He closed his eyes. It had been an inevitability, Danarius reclaiming his lost property, taking back the slave he had shaped and trained from nothing. Now all that was left was for the slave to be remade, reconditioned to the master's will. Had it been month before, Fenris would have fought the collar at his neck, the symbol of his status, his leash, but months ago, he had been at Hawke's side, had dreamed only of freedom at her side. Having neither, his only survival was to withdraw, to take the last salvageable pieces of his heart and tuck them back behind the walls of defence he had carefully crafted over the years - walls that were rusted from disuse after Hawke had gently pried them loose and tucked a bit of herself among the pieces. He cradled that last bit of her, the memories of her warmth and her kind smile, before locking it away inside, letting himself once more become the slave he had once cursed himself for being.

When he heard footsteps, ones so familiar that he often heard them in his sleep, he managed to sit up without breaking his own neck and got on his knees, head bowed in the presence of his master. Danarius had aged significantly since Fenris had last seen him in those Seheron jungles, his hair far greyer but as neatly trimmed and cared for as it had always been. He had more wrinkles, some part of his close-off heart reveling in the knowledge that he had caused some of them, but he was no less intimidating or clothed with any less wealth. He was no less the Magister for the loss of his slave and no better of one for it's return.

There was a silence while Fenris kept his head low, waiting for either punishment or a command, but there was only a shuffling before his vision was filled with the palm of Danarius' hand, familiar fingers tilting up his head with practiced grace. "My little Fenris, you've caused me a great deal of trouble," Danarius chided softly, as though scolding a small child, a tone Fenris was too familiar with.

Fenris dropped his eyes. "My apologies, Master."

The response brought the ghost of a smile to Danarius' face. "What a pleasant surprise, to see you still obedient to your master. I was beginning to worry I might have to take more... drastic measures, but I'm glad to see that's no longer a concern." He paused, moving his hand to run through Fenris' hair, strands snagging to the point of pain, but Fenris kept himself still, having known much gentler hands than these. With as much ease, Danarius pulled at the lyrium in his flesh with his magic, a pain Fenris had forgotten to be wary of in the peace at Hawke's side, shaking and convulsing on the stone floor as his skin felt ignited, as though being skinned alive with a searing hot knife, slowly and agonizingly until he was left gasping and drooling in an effort to contain his screams. Danarius wanted no weakness in him: there was no place for it in a bodyguard, no excuse for it in a slave. He would have to be tough, remain strong.

The lyrium powering Danarius' magic made it hum, low enough for Fenris to hear all the way to his bones, masking the footsteps that entered the tiny cell at Danarius' command. "I have a surprise for you, my pet. Hadriana was certainly a promising apprentice, but she was too ambitious for her own good, running off to retrieve you in an effort to please me. Foolish girl. I've found a much more inspired apprentice to replace her, much more talented. Isn't that right, Varania?"

"Your praise is flattering, Magister," the new arrival replied, her voice thin and tense, and Fenris looks up to see a mirror of his eyes, eyes that he remembers somewhere in the back of his mind, in the gaping hole left behind in his relationship with Hawke that had occasionally dripped in tiny drops of memory. He remembers those eyes, the red hair and pointed ears and fading tan that used to be much darker, back when her hands were smaller and held in larger hands and his hair was not dyed the color of the lyrium in his skin-

Varania looks away, her lips drawn in a thin line, refusing to continue to look at the shuddering mess of a slave on the floor before her. "If you have no need of me, I'll be returning to my rooms." Without waiting for the response, she turns on her heels and trots off, shoulders drawn forcefully level in her attempt to hide her emotions. Danarius smiles, knowing, and Fenris can only stare after her, his hands trembling for a reason other than his drained lyrium.

* * *

Still the disgraced slave, Fenris is not permitted to sleep at his master's side. Instead, he is taken to a small room closer to the slave quarters, barely large enough for him to kneel, the chain on his collar affixed to a hook on the wall above him. No longer bound hand and foot, only the collar to restrain him, Fenris sits in his new quarters, shifting as much as he can manage, working out the kinks in his muscles. He knows not what trials he will be put through in the morning, but knows he will need to be fit: Danarius expects it of him, in the silent way Danarius expects perfection from all his slaves. He does not speak when the door opens, does not acknowledge the woman who sits outside on the hall floor, does not indicate he has noticed the jug of water and the small loaf of bread she presents him. He does not look at her until she reaches out and brushes a finger over a loose thread in his shirt, tracing the length of it to the seam at his shoulder.

"I never thought I'd see you again," she whispers in the dark, her voice strangled, as though the effort of talking to him hurts her.

He can see her in the dark, the outline of her hair, the thin slope of her ears, the color of her eyes in the sparse light. He knows. "You are... my sister." It is a statement, but the question in it is enough to make her sigh.

"I feared that what he said was true, but it is. Your memory is truly gone..." She looks down at her hands, clasped on her lap, her skirts fanning out around her. It makes her look smaller, almost like the little girl in his memories.

"You used to trip over your skirts," he says suddenly, meeting her surprised gaze. "You would trip and cry and I would laugh at you. You would get so angry..." He settled in his little space, finally speaking at the same level as her. "I do not remember much, not since these markings, but some of it has come back, over time. I am sorry."

Varania's smile is thin, but there is warmth in it as much as there is sadness. "There was a time when I hated you, because freedom was a curse to us. Mother tried to see it as a gift, but she passed from illness before long. I hated you for fighting for our freedom - _your_ dream - and then not coming with us. You bought us our freedom... and now I've lost my brother again..."

There is nothing he can say to that, because he does not recall any of it. Instead, he thinks of Hawke, crying as she plunges the knife into her brother's chest, crying as she recounts the death of her sister, crying under the burden of her mother's blame. He thinks of Hawke, thinks of her strength at her loss, and decides that he has never been less deserving of family. He is truly alone. "What... was my name, before?"

"Leto." It is a simple thing, to hear it from Varania's lips, that draws his attention like a bowstring wound tight, but he hears it again in his mind, spoken by others, other voices he can not name. The moment passes and the thought of that name goes with it. He feels no different than before.

"I am sorry," he whispers, once more on his knees, where a slave belongs. "I have been disrespectful of my Master's apprentice." It takes barely a second for Varania to jumped to her feet, leaving him behind in the dark of the night. He knows it hurts her, knowing that her brother is gone, but it is for the best. He is sure Leto would be strong enough to protect her from that pain, but he can only afford to be Fenris now.

* * *

It is far too easy, he finds, to fall back into the pattern of his former routine, made even easier in that Danarius made no attempt to replace him. There was no doubt in the Magister's mind that he would recover his lost property. He pays it no mind, focused on the tasks he knows to perform. He kneels at his Master's side, follows behind him at the distance he has been trained to follow, ignoring the chain that binds him, killing as he is told to kill. He is nothing but a tool, a weapon, made to strike where he is told and remain ready for the next command.

After far too many weeks, he is summoned from his tiny room and taken to one of the large tiled rooms that Danarius has used as a bathing chamber. This one, Fenris recalls, was smaller than the others, and so had been granted to him by his Master, to be used to wash his beloved pet in preparation of being brought to his side. This process remained the same, other slaves with their own, thinner collars and tattered shifts, carrying in soaps and towel and fresh clothes, scrubbing him down until all the dirt and grime is gone, until his skin is rubbed red from hurried drying. It hurts just as much as he remembers, and - because he knows he can - he ignites his lyrium when the slaves come to clothe him, sending them scattering in fear as he gathers the garments his Master has chosen for him and dresses himself. They are soft, much more elegant than anything a slave would be permitted to wear, but Fenris knows the purpose they serve. Danarius takes pride in such things.

Clothed, he is told to head to the library and heads there, shifting the collar of the shirt as he goes so it no longer sits awkwardly against his own metal collar, and respectfully drops to one knee as he opens the door. Danarius is seated in one of the ornate chairs that he favours, close to the center of the room, a large table spread with documents. At Fenris' arrival, Danarius beckons him into the room, when Fenris kneels at the side of his chair, as he knows he is expected to. He catches a glimpse of some of the documents as they are picked up and read, and for the first time since returning to Minrathous, he does not feel like a slave: he can read.

_It's never too late to learn, Fenris._

He remains still, showing no signs of emotion, but his heart skips traitorously at the memory, at the knowledge that he has learned something that slavery can not deny him, that the taste of freedom that Hawke had given him can not be forgotten. He watches, secretly reading the documents as Danarius does, no indication that the master has noticed this rebellion in his slave.

Fenris knows the purpose for which he has been summoned, the purpose that is as essential to him existence as his tasks as a bodyguard, and it begins as it always had, with the caress of Danarius' fingers through his hair, occasionally brushing along his ears to feel them twitch at his touch. Here, the wolf is tamed, more faithful pet than trained killer, a toothless pup in the face of a trained mabari. He will not move unless directed, not speak unless spoken to, not flinch or withdraw in pain. Here, he is as much on display as when he was paraded around half-naked to display the artistry of his lyrium, but this is a private display, one to assure his master he is as tame as his behaviour makes him seem.

While most of these nights are spent in silence, Danarius often spoke to him of things, and tonight was one such night. However, much to his surprise, he was expected to do most of the talking. "Now, dear Fenris, I hear that you found yourself a new mistress in Kirkwall."

Hawke was never his mistress, but knows that his master will not like to be corrected. "Yes, Master."

"Tell me, did you please her? Did she please you?"

"Yes, Master." A lie would not please the master, he knows. He would rather receive the beating than lie, especially after he had hurt Hawke with his fumbled words.

Danarius hums thoughtfully, scraping his immaculately manicured fingernails along Fenris' scalp. It hurts, but there is nothing more grounding than pain and Fenris would rather not think of that night with Hawke. Danarius lets the subject shift. "A shame that she and I were unacquainted. A woman who could manage to tame my little wolf and decapitate the leader of the oxmen's army would be a fine woman indeed." Fenris says nothing, as is expected of him, but a part of his heart bristles at the idea of Hawke and Danarius in the same room. He knows Hawke would be just another prize, another beast to tame, another trophy for Danarius' collection. He knows Hawke would kill the Magister on sight.

They sit late into the night, Danarius resuming his reading with his precious pet at his side, until he rises to retire for the evening. Now, Fenris knows what it is he must do, following quietly along after his master, kneeling at the side of the bed as Danarius is changed by his other slaves, dismissing them directly afterwards. At the direction of his master, Fenris begins shedding his clothes, slowly, to display his lyrium-lined skin, letting it glow softly under his master's touch. Danarius admires the weapon he has created, without fear that the mouth he feeds will bite the hand that feeds it, and compliments his pet. Fenris replies with his practiced responses, knowing which ones will please Danarius most as he admires each line of power humming under that thin layer of skin. The touches are reverent, worshipping, gentle.

Fenris knows that those gentle touches will end soon enough. He knows he exists to please... and please his Master he does.

He is ever the perfect slave, exactly as his master wishes him. Sleeping at the end of the bed, curled up by his master's feet with nothing - not even a shred of shame - the armor he is expected to don before his master wakes stacked neatly in a corner, Fenris knows he is lost.

He was never free. He was always just a slave.


	4. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris starts going crazy - or at least, he thinks he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pain and suffering is over. It's my birthday present to me: sparing my favorite couple from their heartache. Enjoy.

Fenris is unsure of exactly when he noticed that he was losing his mind, but he is keenly aware of just how much of it he has lost, standing behind Danarius as he speaks with another Magister in the street. He is staring across the street as a lithe figure darts in and out of the shadows, casual and cautious in equal measure. The figure is easily ignored by everyone else passing by, too wrapped up in their own business to care about someone odd, but the figure knows that Fenris is watching them, and that is when Fenris knows he has lost his mind.

The figure is Hawke.

She peeks out from under the hood of her forest-green cloak - green like his eyes, she told him once - and smiles at him, pressing a finger to her lips for his silence. Fenris nods slightly and she ducks back under her hood, disappearing from sight. He is absolutely convinced that he is losing his mind. Hawke is dead. He keeps his silence, as agreed, sure that Danarius would be displeased to know his bodyguard was hallucinating. He hopes that it is a temporary thing.

A week later, he sees her again, this time only her smile peeking out from the hood, but it is her again.

And again.

And again...

Finally, after his fifth sighting of her, Fenris knows he has completely lost his mind.

There will not be a sixth time.

* * *

The sixth time, however, arrives, and proves to be the last.

It starts with a whisper, so silent that Fenris almost misses it, grabbing his master by the waist to pull him out of the way. Before Danarius could think to reprimand his pet, one of the buildings on the street explodes, with Fenris placed between his master and harm. It is a revolt, not unlike ones Fenris has seen before, but something about it feels wrong. Escaped slaves have never been this precise in their riots, this well-armed and prepared. They have some kind of advantage...

And then he sees her, green cloak in the haze and dust, a familiar red-wrapped dagger in her hands, her mouth set in a grim line. She is the distraction, and he notices the magebane in the air too late, keenly aware of the familiar smell. He thinks he must be dreaming. Hawke standing in a cloud of magebane was as likely as Anders offering himself up to the Circle. This imposter, this not-Hawke, must be a dream. The thought paralyzes him, that he is dreaming or delusional, and not-Hawke passes by him to bury her dagger in Danarius' heart. He is too much in shock, too sure it is all a dream, that he lets her grab his hand and pull him into an ally, quickly working the collar off his neck and removing her cloak, flipping it so the green outer layer was disguised under a layer of muddy brown cloth, draping it over his shoulders to carefully tuck the hood over his head. Taking his hand again, she led him through the noisy streets, keeping close to the edges of crowds as they shuffled in the direction of the commotion.

They stop finally, in an alley with a horse-drawn cart and a tired-looking elf. Not-Hawke whispers something to him and he nods, handing her a large blanket. Without a word, she pulls Fenris with her into the cart and throws the blanket over them, the two of them huddled close together as the elf places crates and barrels with careful precision over and around them. The cart starts to move and Fenris shifts, only for not-Hawke to grab at the cloak around him to hold him still. The cart stops twice, voices in accented Common discussing something that Fenris can not hear over the blood pounding in his ears, and each time, the cart moves on. Eventually, a loud voice shouts something from the front of the cart and not-Hawke practically springs upwards, sending hollow crates and fake parcels scattering with her laughter.

When he sits up, watching her stretch, he sees the scar and his blood runs cold.

There is a long scar across her abdomen, the flesh coarse and puckered, as if it had been violently split.

"Hawke...?"

She turns to him and smiles, and for the first time since he saw her in the streets, he really looks at her. He knows the smile she wears, knows all the patterns of the freckles on her face, knows those bright blue eyes. Her clothes are new, as is the way they cling to her slightly more muscular build, and there is a short braid in her hair, tied with a piece of red string and tucked behind her ear, but he knows her. He _knows_.

"That was a close one, right? _So_ many things could have gone wrong but we did it!" she cheers, pumping her fists into the air in victory.

Fenris can only stare and reach out for her, hesitant to dispel what can only be a mirage. Instead, she takes his hand in hers, solid and real, and he can do nothing to restrain himself from crashing into her embrace, flattening her back into the contents of the cart. He is trembling, but he does not care. He is crying, but he can not care.

" _Hawke_..."

She runs her fingers through his hair, holding him to her, and that breaks the last of the barriers around his heart, exposing all the ache in him, laying it bare before her. The delicate touch of her hands brushes it all away, leaving only her warmth behind, leaving only them, leaving only her. It feels as though a weight has been lifted from his shoulders by her presence, the closeness of her, the peace only she can bring. Only the sudden stillness of her hands alerts him to the fact that the cart has stopped, Hawke thanking the driver as she helps Fenris back to the ground.

Once the cart has receded into the distance, Hawke stretches again, a short series of exercises he has seen her do countless times, limbering up for their hikes up Sundermount and along the Wounded Coast. He had once commented on the necessity of a mage taking such actions, to which she had laughed and regaled him with a tale of Carver cramping up on a hike and nearly drowning himself in a river, much to the dismay of the story's protagonist. When she finished, she held out her hand to Fenris. "Ready?"

Fenris shifted uncomfortably, tucked back under the hood of her cloak. "Hawke, as glad as I am to see you, you were... There is an explanation for this, and I would hear it."

"I know. I owe it to you, but not here," she replied, glancing around cautiously. "When we're inside, I'll tell you everything, but you have to trust me for now. Do you trust me?" She indicated her hand with a tilt of her chin, her gaze piercing into him.

"Of course." He took her hand, reveling in the light touch, the warmth of the magic slumbering in her fingertips sending a soothing tingle through his lyrium. Satisfied, Hawke cradled his hand close to her and started leading him away from the road. They hike for what seems like hours, the sun drifting further and further out of sight, and Fenris contents himself with staring at her, watching the orange glow of the sunset play across her skin and through her hair, making the smile in her eyes sparkle.

Finally, just before the sun has set entirely, she directs him to a thin sliver of a hole in the side of a rock formation, so thin that only those looking for it could possibly find it, so thin that Hawke herself can barely squeeze through. On the other side is a sloping path, damp and dark. He watches as Hawke summons a tiny magelight to illuminate their surroundings and then takes his hand again, carefully leading him down the path as it winds downwards, turning suddenly into various side tunnels seemingly at random, until they finally exit into a small cavern and Hawke extinguishes the light. The ceiling of the cavern is coated with a glowing moss, one that seems to paint the night sky above them, but Fenris' eyes are drawn to the object in the middle of the room.

Before them stands a large mirror, one he recognizes for the ornate patterns of branches moulded along the golden border. It is an eluvian, much like the one Merril kept trying to fix in her hovel in Kirkwall's alienage, but this one stands whole before them, the surface clouded over. The magic radiating off it makes his skin crawl, but Hawke approaches it without hesitation, placing her hand upon the opaque surface. It rippled like a liquid under her touch and she once more held out her hand for his.

"Hawke..."

"It's just a mirror, Fenris," she teases, before letting her face go serious. "I wouldn't ask you to follow me if I didn't know for sure this wouldn't hurt you." The conviction in her eyes left him no doubt, and he took her hand. At once, the world lurched out from under his feet, tilting hard like the deck of a ship in a storm, before leaving him gasping for air on the floor. It took him a moment - in no small part thanks to Hawke rubbing his back - for him to catch his breath and look around. No longer were they in a cave: they were in a room of white marble stained grey with dirt and time, lit almost ethereally by glowing green torchlight. Across the room was a thick wooden door, guarded by two elves, one of which was wary, the other giving them a genial smile.

"Welcome back, Hawke. Trust your mission went well. Is this him?" The accent was thick, similar to Merril's, but his face was clean of markings and he had a reddish tan.

Hawke gave the elf a smile in return. "Yup, all good. Is Solas still up? I need to report in before it gets any later."

"Lord Fen'Harel is still in his study. I can send a message of your arrival to him-"

"No, I said I'd check in myself. Besides, he'll want to see for himself."

After a quick exchanging of pleasantries, Hawke gently guided Fenris out of the room and up a flight of stairs. At the top of the landing, Fenris pulled her to a stop. "Hawke, what is this place? You owe me an explanation."

"And you'll get one, Fenris," she replied with a smile, "but it will be easier if Solas explains some of the finer details. There's quite a bit I wasn't present for." She gave his hand a light squeeze of reassurance. "Just a few more hallways."

It was a few more hallways... and a few flights of stairs, as well as open stares and casual glances by the other people they passed, all of whom were elves. Fenris was beginning to feel like Hawke was leading him on until she slowed in front of a particular door, one with less embellishment than some of the others they had passed. The only identifier of any kind was a set of long gashes in the wood and a pair of canine eyes whittled into the top of the door frame. Without fanfare, Hawke pushed open the door and lead him inside. It was a much larger room than the door had lead him to believe, the walls stacked with bookshelves of numerous tomes, a large map of Thedas painted into one wall and framed by pinned notes and discarded rolls of parchment. The wall opposite the door was floor-to-ceiling windows, letting in the fading light of day as it cast a red pall across the horizon. In the middle of the room was a large tree trunk, thick with rings of age, roots seeming to disappear into the floor, piled high with books, paints, and a lantern that glowed with the same green fire. Behind the 'desk' sat an elf, bald and pale, who looked up with sharp eyes that locked onto Fenris before he stood up and greeted them.

" _Aneth ara_ , Hawke. I am glad to see you return with such haste." He cast another glance at Fenris. "And to see you return successfully."

"Thank you, Solas. I'll admit, even without your contacts, it was a difficult task, but I had some unexpected help and here we are." She turned to Fenris. "Fen, this is Solas. _Technically_ , he's one of the Dalish gods, but we can trust him."

Fenris eyed Solas warily. Despite the calm, collected way he held himself, Fenris could feel the magic rolling off of him like a dense fog, stronger than anything he had ever felt before. It was unnerving, enough to convince him that something was off.

Solas gave no indication that he had noticed Fenris' discomfort. "It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Fenris. There is much I would discuss with you, but perhaps it better we speak when you are both rested."

Hawkw opened her mouth to speak, but Fenris cut her off. "No, I want an explanation _now_. How is it that Hawke is here, not an apparition or puppet of some foul magics, but truly alive? And you, who command such distinction and reverence, even from her - what do you want from me?"

There was a silence as Fenris waited for answers. Hawke awkwardly chewed her lip, but Solas looked calm as he gathered himself together to speak. "Simply put, what I want of you is your skill, your prowess on the field of battle, the way you strike fear into the hearts of your enemies. I have need of that skill, among others, to forward my goals."

"And you would use Hawke to bribe me into aiding you?"

"Not at all. Hawke is an essential part of the skills I require of you, as well as a consenting individual aiding me in progressing my aims. I would ask for your aid as a free man: Hawke's involvement is to the benefit of us both."

Fenris scowled. "And what of her? Am I to believe this is truly her when I held her lifeless form in my own hands? As I have mourned her passing every day that I wake? The dead can not be revived. If this is not some trick, I would have proof."

"Hawke, please give me your knife," Solas asked, as if ignoring Fenris' questions. With slight hesitation, she took out one of her red-marked knives and handed it to Solas, who in turn gave it to Fenris. "If you are not willing to believe eyes nor words, then only you can convince yourself of the truth. If you believe her to be some imitation, there should be nothing to stay your hand from disposing of her."

Fenris' heart skipped a beat so fiercely his head began to spin. Hawke, similarly, looked baffled. "Solas, what-"

"If you truly believe her to be a fake, then she must be an affront to your grief and be disposed of, correct?" Solas' voice was still, confident in his decision. "If you still harbor even the slightest affection for her - even a drop of the ocean waters that Hawke's words have spoken of for you - then you will know if she is real."

Fenris could feel the weight of Solas' ultimatum fall upon his shoulders: if this Hawke was real, he could never find it within himself to harm her. He could feel his hands shaking as he turned to approach her, watching her still expression as he stood before her, the knife in his hands unsteady as he pointed it at her chest, just above her heart. If she was afraid, she made no sign of it: her eyes were focused on his, bright and brilliant in the setting sun, calm and inviting, as simple as though she were inviting him for an evening stroll. He tried to convince himself that she could never be real, but the more he stared at her, the more he remembered the shape of her lips against his skin, the curve of her hips under his hands, the smell of her hair and the sound of her voice. His hands shook harder. "Are you scared?" he managed to croak out, barely a whisper.

Hawke only smiled at him, a familiar thing of reassurance. "No, because you've never given me reason to fear you, Fenris."

The mere sound of his name from her lips made his heart stutter in his chest, painfully slamming in his rib cage in protest, and it was all Fenris could do to drop the knife and roughly pull Hawke into his arms, crushing her in his embrace. She squeaked in surprise before surrendering herself to him, returning his hold, resting her head on his shoulder, her breath against his skin making it tingle. He could feel her heartbeat against his, knew the sound and feel of it like his own, so precious and tender that it almost brought him to tears again. Hawke, his Marian, was alive.

It took a few minutes for him to stop shaking, breathing in the familiar smell of her helping to calm his nerve, before he was able to step away and turn back to Solas, clasping Hawke's hand in his own. "How? How were you able to do this?"

Solas was smiling softly at the sight of them. "It was a very delicate process, one that took time and a great deal of my magic to accomplish. It was a spell I have never used before, re-binding her soul to her body in stages as it healed. I had a lot of help performing it, but it is not something I would be able to manage again. Your companion, Merrill, was instrumental in this. In fact, she was the one who called to me for aid."

"She did?"

"Yes. Though her eluvian was mostly incomplete, I was able to speak to her through it and instruct her on bringing Hawke to me. She was very determined to help; I wouldn't have been able to revive Hawke without her assisting me. She has since returned to Kirkwall, however, now that Hawke is in good health."

Fenris took a moment to mull over Solas' words, about to ask another question when his stomach rumbled. He blushed all the way to the tips of his ears, divering his gaze to stare at a spot on the marble floor. Hawke and Solas had the decency not to laugh, though he could see the ghost of a smile on Hawke's lips.

Solas walked back around his desk. "For now, that must be enough. Rest, eat, and we shall continue our discussion in the morning. I will have a room prepared for you by tomorrow, but until then I would ask that you remain with Hawke." He gave Hawke a slight nod and she returned it, lightly brushing Fenris' thumb with her own. She smiled at Fenris, affectionate and warm, and Fenris found himself unable to resist smiling back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had actually planned to try writing a big fight scene with Danarus, but he's not important enough for me to waste that much time on him. He's here, he's dead, let's move on to the fluff.


End file.
